


What Really Happened

by hawkeward



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-13
Updated: 2011-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeward/pseuds/hawkeward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Does that not match the story you’ve heard, Seeker?”</p><p>Five things that never happened to Hawke and Anders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Really Happened

i.

He hasn’t let Bethany out of his sight since the Templars came for them—not for more than a minute on the week-long journey to the Circle Tower, and not for even a moment since the gigantic iron-barred doors closed behind them. She understands enough to scream and cling to him when anyone comes near, and he does his part by holding her tight and glaring his hardest at everyone, all the while trying to keep his mouth from trembling.

A pair of Templars march them down dreary halls, past cell-like doors that open to reveal curious faces and close again just as quickly. They stop outside a door more elaborate than the others, clearly the office of someone important.

A boy near to his own age already waits in the hall. Blood seeps sluggishly down his chin from a split lip, and a dark purple bruise marks his cheek. His right arm rests in a makeshift sling. His robe is soaked through, caked in dark mud to the knees. There’s a strand of pond weed stuck in his blond hair. An exasperated Templar grips his shoulder tightly, the fingers of her armored gloves digging deep enough to make him wince.

One of the Templars knocks on the elaborate door, then opens it and enters, leaving him and Bethany with the other. “Caught him trying to swim the lake again—” echos loudly into the hall before the door closes.

The boy sees him looking and flashes him a grin that lights up his whole face—confident, reassuring, and not a little mischievous. He finds that he can’t help but return it with a trembling one of his own.

 

ii.

“He’s my friend, from when I was in the Circle in Fereldan,” the mage who introduced himself as Karl says. “The Templars picked him up almost a week ago.” He looks terrible—there are dark circles under his eyes and lines of sorrow etched deep on either side of his mouth.

Hawke glances at Varric, who shrugs almost imperceptibly. It matches what Lirene at the Fereldan imports shop told them, at least. He looks back at Karl. “So what do you want us to do about it?” he asks. “The Templars aren’t exactly keen on letting go of mages. Your friend was foolish enough to get caught, and I’d rather not join him.”

“I’m not suggesting that anyone storm the Gallows,” Karl snaps. “And even if I were, we’d be too late—they made him Tranquil the same day they picked him up.” His voice cracks, from exhaustion or grief, Hawke can’t tell.

“So again we come back to the question of why you’re even talking to us.” An edge of impatience creeps into Hawke’s voice. The entire meeting has been a colossal waste of time. “The only thing more useless to us right now than a Tranquil Warden is a dead one.”

Karl’s eyes harden, and for a moment Hawke thinks the mage is going to take a swing at him. “I’m talking to you because maybe you can still help me,” he bites out instead. “And if you do, then maybe you’ll get more use out of my friend than you’d otherwise imagine. Do something for me, and I’ll give you his Warden maps of the Deep Roads in this area.”

Hawke and Varric exchange looks. Warden maps would be almost as good as a Warden guide. They’d get the expedition moving again, at least. “We’re interested,” Hawke says slowly. “What’s the job?”

Karl closes his eyes, drawing a long, slow breath. He suddenly looks very alone. “Anders is kept in the Gallows courtyard during the day,” he says quietly. “The Templars won’t let me near him. I need you to distract them so I can talk to him.”

“I don’t care how you do it. Stage a fight, bring some false accusation against one of them—just cause a ruckus and draw their attention.” His eyes meet Hawke’s. “All I need is five minutes alone with him.”

The mage clearly isn’t telling them everything, but Warden maps are worth the risk. Hawke looks at Varric and raises an eyebrow; Varric nods fractionally in reply. “All right,” he says, “Sounds simple enough. We’ll do it.”

 

iii.

Hawke launches himself over the fallen Ser Alrik and barely manages to catch Justice’s first strike on his staff. “Run, damn you!” he yells to the mage cowering behind him. She doesn’t need to be told twice, scrambling up the rocky slope toward the tunnel.

For a moment it looks like Justice will pursue the girl, but the spirit hesitates. Caught between diverging prey, it re-focuses on Hawke. “You are the obsession, the one that distracts him from his duty.” Its voice crackles like the raw wind of the Fade, laced with power that hums through Hawke’s bones. “Why do you stand between Justice and the unjust?”

“You’re sure you don’t mean ‘between demons and the innocent?’ That’s what it looks like from here.” Hawke twirls his staff nervously. Provoking a Fade spirit is never a good idea, but he has to give the girl another minute to escape. She wouldn’t stand a chance against something like Justice.

He’s prepared for another attack, but Justice is impossibly fast. It lashes out with Anders’ arm, catching Hawke’s throat in an iron grip and driving him back into the wall with alien strength. Hawke’s head cracks against rock and he feels his feet leave the ground.

“He thinks of you when he should think of all his brethren. Selfishness keeps him from his true calling, and me from my purpose.” The cracks in Anders’ skin bleed burning power. It sears against the flesh of Hawke’s neck, and he feels the bones grind together as Justice shifts. “Your dalliance is a human weakness that has no place in the pursuit of virtue.”

White spots are dancing in Hawke’s vision; the wall of the cave digs into the back of his head. His hands scrabble at the one at his throat, weaker by the second. “Anders—,” he grits out between clenched teeth.

Justice leans mercilessly into the grip. “When I kill you with his hands, his spirit will break. There will be no more distractions.” It smiles coldly through Anders’ face. “He will be mine.”

 

iv.

“Oh, so now you come crawling back to me,” Merril’s says bitterly. “After all the lecturing, all the times you tried to protect me from myself like I was some kind of stupid child, when it’s someone you care about, your high-and-mighty attitude disappears and suddenly you’re willing to get your hands dirty.”

“I’m losing him.” Hawke’s voice is ragged. “He doesn’t remember entire conversations. Half the time I don’t know who I’m waking up next to. It’s killing him, and it’s killing me to just stand there and watch it happen. If there’s a way—any way—to separate them, I have to try it.”

She looks him in the eye. “Does he know you’re considering this?” His gaze slides away from hers. “Hawke. Does he even know you’re here?”

His silence is sufficient answer for both of them.

“He won’t thank you, you know. I doubt he’s as much a hypocrite as you are.” It’s a deserved barb, but it still stings him.

“Please, Merrill,” he says quietly. It’s all he can say, and she knows it.

Her shoulders slump. She tips her head back, rubbing her face with her hands. “Elgar’nan, I’m going to regret this,” she says wearily.

She draws the knife from her belt and places it in his hand, curls his fingers around the handle. “All right,” she says. “First lesson.”

 

v.

The color is already draining out of Anders’ face; his eyes stare blankly into nothingness. Blood pools around him, soaking into Hawke’s clothes, coating his hands as he cradles his friend’s body. It threads through the cracks between the flagstones, stark and red.

He wonders idly how much blood the streets of Kirkwall have seen, and whether the Tevinter magisters had them shaped to channel it into specific patterns.

The blood is seeping slowly toward Knight-Commander Meredith, now; the ground must be sloped that way. She’s saying something to him, and he tries to focus, to attach meaning to what now seems like insignificant babble.

“What say you, Champion?” The words seem to form out of some fog that surrounds him; cold, imperious. Cruel. He smooths a strand of hair away from Anders’ forehead. His hand leaves a crimson swath across the too-white skin.

“I’ve killed the best man I ever met,” he says, flatly. He can barely hear his own voice over the roaring in his ears. “I say it’s only fitting that I kill the worst woman I ever met, as well. For balance.” He lifts his head until his eyes lock with hers. A trickle of Anders’ blood reaches her right boot, spreading around and under it like a caress.

Meredith’s eyes widen.

Hawke smiles, and wakes the blood’s power.


End file.
